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Kit Layne-Johnson
28 June 2013 @ 12:41 pm
Hello, this is me - coming back.

I've been hiding for awhile, because I was scared, because of anxiety and depression and...everything. But I'm back now. PREPARE YOURSELF.
Current Mood: determineddetermined
Kit Layne-Johnson
10 February 2012 @ 11:38 pm
Real People:
Matt Smith
Benjamin Franklin
JK Rowling

Fictional People of other people's makings:
The Eleventh Doctor
The Tenth Doctor
Luna Lovegood

Fictional People of my making:
& Annie, Matt, or Luciana.

Current Mood: optimisticoptimistic
Kit Layne-Johnson
30 January 2012 @ 11:30 pm
What is your answering machine away message? If you don't have one, you can make it up!
Before Christmas it was:
Believe it or not, Kab isn't at home
Please leave a meeessaaaage at the beep.
I must be out or I'd pick up the phone
Where could I beee?
Believe it or not, I'm not hoooooome!

But I changed it to:
Kaitlyn the elf, what's your favourite colour?!
Current Mood: thirstythirsty
Kit Layne-Johnson
29 January 2012 @ 11:20 pm
In order of least annoying to most.


-He wants me to be 'the best I can', which apparently means 'do what everyone else does'

-He talks more than I do. Who is paying whom here?!

-He says the same things every time. I hear the same stories every week. I'm not even exagerating.

-"One in 10,000 black kids get in the NBA".
That's why I won't get published. Ever. Because a) ALL black kids play basketball and want to be in the NBA, b) basketball and writing are the same thing...cause you know there aren't tons more writers than basketball players or anything, and c) because the odds for being a published author aren't MUCH better.

-He forces his religon on me.
"God is the bow and parents are the string and you are the arrow", "You have to have a balance of God, family, friends, and work.", "Original sin", etc. I've heavily implied that I'm no longer a Christain, but he's got his head in his butt.

-He says I live in a 'fantasy world'
I can't even tell you how angry this makes me. Yep, I'm just blissfully unaware of my sister's cancer, my mom's stress, my dad's heart problems, my own huge shortcomings, my best friend's annoying family, my grandad's alzheimer's, my aunt and uncle getting a divorce, etc. Nothing bad happens in my life or in the world at all! *skips away happily*

-And the number one thing...
I trusted him with my story. Just one. It wasn't my best, but I still like it. What did he do, you ask? Read it, talk to me about, ask about the characters and my inspiration and if anything was based off real life? Nope! He read it to people. He read it first to a group of psychiarists who he discusses my 'case' with on a regular basis, then a friend who, before he read the story to, thought I was 'not very smart', then a writer friend of his. He never asked for permission or asked if it was okay. And I haven't told him because I'm a sissy.

So what do you think? Am I justified at being mad for these things?
Current Mood: angryangry
Kit Layne-Johnson
25 January 2012 @ 02:49 pm

There's been some discussion recently on Tumblr about what they could possibly do to raise the stakes for a National Treasure 3. We have this so far for 1 & 2


So here are some ideas from Tumblr for number 3:
i’m going to hold the statue of liberty hostage
i’m going to blow up Delaware
i’m going to steal the internet
I’m going to deface the american flag on the moon and put my face on it
i’m going to steal Walt Disney’s frozen head and use it as a snow globe
i’m going to be the twelfth doctor and resurrect gallifrey
i’m going to prevent the reichenbach fall
I’m going to take the Hobbits to Isengard
i’m going to throw the elder wand off a bridge
I’m going to become the Mockingjay
I’m going to destroy the Green Sun
I’m going to be the cause of the world ending in 2012
I’m going to end the DFS sale.
I’m going to walk into Mordor
I’m going to divide by zero
I'm going to travel to Pete's World and bring back Roes.
I'm going to talk about Fight Club
I'm going to talkm about Tumblr on facebook.
I'm going to write a heterosexual fanfiction for Sherlock.

Current Mood: chipperchipper
Kit Layne-Johnson
25 January 2012 @ 02:34 pm
Demons Run:

Demons run when a good man goes to war.
Night will fall and drown the sun,
When a good man goes to war.

Friendship dies and true love lies,
Night will fall and the dark will rise,
When a good man goes to war.

Demons run but count the cost
The battle’s won, but the child is lost
When a good man goes to war.

Current Mood: accomplishedaccomplished
Kit Layne-Johnson
25 January 2012 @ 02:33 pm

The Garden of Proserpine

By Algernon Charles Swinburne

Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.

She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.

We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.
Current Mood: enthralledenthralled
Kit Layne-Johnson
25 January 2012 @ 02:28 pm
The Bells by Edgar Allen Poe
Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells -
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! -how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

Hear the loud alarum bells -
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now -now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -
Of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

Hear the tolling of the bells -
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people -ah, the people -
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone -
They are neither man nor woman -
They are neither brute nor human -
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells,
Of the bells -
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells -
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells -
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells
Current Mood: thoughtfulthoughtful
Kit Layne-Johnson
25 January 2012 @ 02:27 pm
Annabell Lee by Edgar Allen Poe:
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
Kit Layne-Johnson
25 January 2012 @ 02:26 pm
Don't Fear The Darkness by BP Think (me)
A dream within a dream...

the magic of depth.

Ever changing, re-arranging...

don't fear the darkness.

Like the changing leaves...

like the changing tides...

Like the curving lines of fate,

bent ever so slightly in our favour...

just like these dreams.

We are but a breath...

an inhale of the world...

just like a blade of grass...

like these calm hours...

Glowing of red,

just like the fresh blood...

fresh blood of the new generation...

Don't fear the darkness.

Current Mood: accomplishedaccomplished